


Griffith House Rules

by The Stephanois (ballantine)



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, F/F, First Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 00:25:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3188879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballantine/pseuds/The%20Stephanois
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Angie heard noises coming from Peggy's apartment and the one time she caused them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Griffith House Rules

**1.**

Angie’s just off a double shift at the diner. She’s dragging her feet, practically stumbling out of exhaustion on the stairs of the Griffith. Sue from 3F walks past dressed up to the nines and Angie’s torn between abject admiration and spiteful jealousy. Clearly she should’ve tried for secretary.

Except secretary’s more of a permanent posting, and that’s not the life for Angela Martinelli, no sir. She’s got better things in her sights. She knows that waitressing is only temporary, just until she gets her first break, but the idea of going in to the automat again in 8 hours has her feeling like she’ll stab the first complaining joe with her orders pencil.

She rounds the corner to her hall, and her eyes involuntarily land on Peggy’s door.

She’d like nothing more than to slip inside and throw herself down on the other girl’s bed, moan a bit about her life and maybe see if she could get Peggy to cuddle up for a while.

But Peggy’s a temperamental sort, as likely to dismiss her brusquely as to tolerate her presence. Normally Angie’d like to say this would put her off (hey she can take a hint, okay, she’s got her pride), but – well, that’s all a lie. Fact is, she’ll take what she can get; when Angie falls, she falls _hard_.

Nevertheless, she’s all set to walk on, except that exact moment is when a terrific crash and bang comes from the other side of the door. It’s the sound of something heavy being knocked over and maybe a few delicate items being smashed.

Perhaps Peggy had a fall? Maybe there's an intruder? False aloofness abandoned more quickly than her last New Year’s resolution, Angie steps up to Peggy’s door and calls out:

“Hey, Peg, you okay in there?”

There is an obvious shifting of something heavy inside and then Peggy’s voice rings out, “Oh, I’m fine!”

And Angie can take a hint, _really_ , but something makes her pause a moment longer and ask, “Are you sure? I heard an awful noise.”

“Oh, it's nothing!” Comes the strained reply. The tone of voice clicks something in Angie’s memory, reminding her of the too-cheery, breathless kind of response one might give to nuns when they interrupt to ask why you and another girl are in the same bathroom stall. Angie knows the drill: acknowledgement of the interruption followed by excuses to forestall discovery.

She wonders if it was that man from the diner, the nervy Englishman who was clearly so repressed he couldn't even face the woman he's having an affair with in public. Peggy played dumb, sure, but Angie wasn't an amateur. No way was that man a “colleague” from the telephone company.

Poor Peggy. She deserves so much more – sumptuous meals and candlelight and hand holding. Not furtive notes passed over the back of a shiny vinyl automat booth.

Angie would tell her to leave him, tell her that the sort of half-life of a mistress isn't worth it, but she been down that road with other girls before (bye-bye Lorna, enjoy your life in _Armonk_ ). All it gets her is a boot out the door and letters that go unanswered.

Angie shrugs like it doesn’t matter and trudges on towards her own apartment.

 

**2.**

One evening, Angie’s balancing an ambitiously full laundry basket on her hip and reaching out to open her door when she hears an argument in the hallway. The tone is sharp enough to give Ms. Fry a run for her money, but she immediately recognizes Peggy’s voice.

She must be using the hallway phone – a first, Angie thinks. She’s never seen Peggy telephone _anybody_ ; she assumed early on that the other woman didn’t have much in the way of family or friends, at least not in any time zone nearby.

Not wanting to interrupt what’s clearly an important conversation, Angie sets her laundry down and, after a brief but earnest debate with herself, presses her ear to the door.

“ – a sequence of events culminating in telephoning me at _work_ , which is completely against procedure. There are phone records that can be checked and – ” Peggy pauses, listening for a moment before continuing in force, “and _you_ need to have a little more appreciation for what I do for you.”

Then she lowers her voice, so Angie has to press harder against the door to make out what she is saying.

“There's a back door at the hall that lets out about 50 meters from the rendezvous point. Don't be late.”

These ex-military types, Angie thinks as Peggy hangs up, are _so_ dramatic. Jeez, even a simple affair requires procedures and rendezvous points. It fits, though; she couldn’t see Peggy conducting a romance with anything less than a color-coded action plan and full map of all exits.

 

**3.**

Angie’s just changed into her pajamas and settled down to a short glass of Schnapps and the Sunday funnies when she hears a distinctive noise from the hallway.

She grew up in a family of ten in a large tenement building so she knows what a drunk returning home sounds like – she's just surprised to hear it in the Griffith. How on earth did they get past Ms. Fry?

That surprise has nothing on the bewilderment of opening her door to find Peggy-stiff-upper-lip-Carter out in the hallway, swaying forward against the wall as she fumbles and drops her keys.

“ _Peggy?_ ”

The other woman swings around, slowly blinking at her like her eyelids are sticking together. By itself it's alarming, but the expression on her face – confused, worried – has Angie moving forward to help.

When she gets close enough to whisper, she asks, “What happened? Are you – ” she pauses, puzzled, because Peggy doesn’t smell like someone who’s been hanging around at the bottom of a bottle. Nevertheless, “Jeez, Peggy, did your man get you liquored up or what?”

Peggy lifts a hand as if to wave her off, face crinkling slightly in annoyance and pain. Her eyes won’t focus, and Angie feels the first trickle of real alarm. Peggy wavers again, and she catches her just before she falls noisily against the hallway wall.

Angie valiantly ignores the feel of the other woman’s curves against her own and the heady smell of her hair. “No man who gets you in a state like this is worth your while,” she says, going for prim. “Maybe it seems fun now,” it didn't seem very fun, “but you'll regret it tomorrow.”

“No, there's no _man_ , not like … it was a _dart_ ,” Peggy says at last, voice thick and nearly incomprehensible, a far cry from her normal posh articulation. She flaps an arm, “This… this is all the dart.”

“You… were playing darts?”

Peggy's face scrunches in confusion, but she nods vaguely. Her body seems to take the nod as some sort of navigational directive, because she nods her way right into the crook of Angie's neck. “I got the antidote,” she says into Angie's collarbone. “Don't worry.”

“Worry,” Angie says aloud. “Why would I worry?” She looks from the keys on the floor to Peggy's closed door and comes to a decision. “Alright, you're in no state to be by yourself. You're bunking with me tonight.”

Peggy hums and shifts her arms to around her shoulders, and Angie can't tell if the other woman is trying to hug her or just assist in standing. They slowly shuffle down to Angie's apartment. Once inside, Angie forces her to drink some water and helps her take off her shoes.

“I know you're tired,” Angie says when Peggy starts to show signs of falling asleep. “But you probably want to take off your makeup. Waking up to tacky eyes and smeared lipstick is never fun.”

Peggy grumbles impatiently, but remains upright and compliant as Angie stands in front of her to wipe down her face. Angie gently and efficiently wipes at her eyes and lips, not pausing to think about how close they are or how soft Peggy's skin feels.

“We're going to talk about this tomorrow, you hear me?” Angie says. Peggy blinks up at her. “You don't get to scare me like this and then just go back to being all English on me.”

“All English?” Peggy says, drowsily bemused.

“Yeah, that bit you do where you're all close-mouthed and polite. None of that.”

Peggy smiles sleepily at her and nods. Angie isn't sure she's understood anything she's said.

Once she's gotten Peggy secured on her bed, she goes back to the hallway to retrieve the dropped keys. She returns to her apartment and closes the door with a relieved sigh; at least they're no longer in danger of being happened upon by Ms. Fry. Peggy would be dismissed for sure.

She steps away from the door and up to the bed, where Peggy's shifted back against the wall to leave a space for her on the mattress. She's already asleep and curled inward, protective of herself even in sleep. Her hand is stretched out into Angie's spot.

Heart in her throat, Angie turns off her light and lies down. She turns carefully onto her side and watches Peggy sleep for a while before finally drifting off herself.

 

**4.**

Angie’s so impatient to end her shift and get home the next night she actually whisks away a patron’s payment before they can fumble out a couple extra coins for a tip. Her eye’s on the clock, mind on the heart-swooping oddness of Peggy’s disoriented composure from the night before.

She’d woken up that morning to find the other girl gone. It wasn’t exactly a shock, it's happened before, but even after all these years Angie can't help but feel anxious and wistful about the absence and the sure-to-follow silence. It always spun her head right around, the moments of close intimacy followed by stonewalled emotion.

When she arrives back at the Griffith that evening, bypassing Ms. Fry with a hasty wave and greeting, she is all set to confront Peggy about it, awkwardness be damned.

Except by the time she gets up to the third floor and hears the mournful song on the record player seeping out from Peggy's closed door, all confidence deserts her.

Peggy's such a private person. She's proven more than once that she doesn't welcome Angie prying into her business. If she needs someone to talk to, she's clearly more than comfortable seeking her. The contact has to be on her own terms.

Angie ignores the voice in her head that says that's just cowardice talking. Truth is, she doesn't think she could handle another brush-off. She continues on to her own door, the music dogging her steps and tugging at her heart.

 

**5.**

It's raining out, and even with her umbrella Angie hasn't been spared. Her shoes and stockings are soaked through and give an unpleasant squelching sensation with every step she takes. The lady at the front desk had given her a dirty look when she walked past, like she'd _chosen_ to get wet just so she could leave little puddles on the floor.

All she wants is to take a hot bath and maybe curl up in front of the fireplace in the common area.

Banging noises are coming from Peggy's room again, but as she nears it, she notices that the door's ajar. This is out-of-character enough that Angie stops in her tracks. Surely even locked in the depths of a passionate embrace, Peggy would never leave her door open.

Without pausing to rethink her action, Angie nudges the door open and looks inside. And then gapes.

They're locked together on the ground, thrashing wildly around.

Underwood has her legs around Peggy's neck, and it's _not_ in the messing-around-fun-times way, unless the girls in Iowa have some strange ideas about fun. Angie would like to give her the benefit of the doubt, except Peggy's face is turning purple.

“Get off her, you hayseed,” Angie says loudly and swings her umbrella at Underwood's head.

She falls back, more surprised than hurt, but it gives Peggy enough time to dislodge her legs and clamber a few feet away. Angie automatically steps in front of her and lifts the umbrella threateningly.

“What the _hell_ is going on here?” Angie says, foregoing the house rules about language. She feels like the situation calls for it.

Peggy has gotten to her feet behind her. Angie knows this because a gun – a _gun,_ a gun in the _Griffith!_ – slides into her vision beside her and has Peggy's arm attached to it.

“Now,” Peggy says, enunciation perfect under the hoarseness of her abused throat. “I think you better give yourself up and tell me what it is you think you are going to accomplish here.”

Angie is so confused. Now that murder is at least momentarily off the table, she takes a moment to properly look Underwood over. Her blonde curls have been tied back tightly and covered in a kerchief and she's clad a dark coat and _trousers._

It's probably the first time Angie's actually found her interesting; it's a pity she was trying to kill Peggy.

Underwood's still on her knees. Face unpainted and expressionless, she looks between the two of them and says nothing. After a moment Peggy sighs.

_And then hands Angie the gun._

“What are you – ” Angie says, voice high and eyes wide. She fumbles with the weighty weapon in her hands, trying at once to both touch it as little as possible and not drop it. She feels like she has too many fingers, and any one of them may slip over the trigger.

Peggy says, “Keep it trained on her, will you? I need to tie her up and then call someone to bring her in.”

“You mean the police?”

Peggy barely pauses, but Angie's looking for it now and notices. “Sure, the police.”

Peggy pulls a length of rope from her dresser – and boy wouldn't _that_ have intrigued Angie if she weren't too shocked already – and crosses the room to Underwood. Angie readjusts her grip on the gun, trying to hold it steady as she points it. It's just that Peggy's so _close_ to her, what if she accidentally shoots and hits the wrong person?

She sees Underwood's expression shift, and then it all happens too fast.

Underwood kicks her leg out, sweeping Peggy's out from under her and then is up on her feet and dashing to the window. Angie yells and, _god_ , she squeezes the trigger, but something's wrong and it doesn't depress, it doesn't _fire_ , and then Underwood's flung the window open and swung out onto the drainpipe.

Peggy recovers and runs to the window, but it's too late. Less than ten seconds in total and she's gone.

Angie's sagging when Peggy turns back around. “Peg, I'm so sorry. I – I tried, but the gun, it didn't work and – ”

“I put the safety on,” Peggy says distractedly. “I didn't actually want you to shoot her.”

Of course she didn't. Peggy didn't _kill_ people.

“That's never a burden I would put on you,” Peggy continues, and then takes a proper look at her and starts to look a little chagrined. “Oh, Angie. You're probably pretty... upset?”

Angie collapses onto Peggy's bed. Now that the action has come to an abrupt stop, the train carts of shock have started slam into each other and the whole wreck is bearing down on poor Angela Martinelli tied to the tracks.

She looks around Peggy's apartment with new eyes, wondering what else has happened in – is that a _bullet hole_ _in her dresser_? She turns and stares at Peggy.

“ _Upset_?” She repeats.

 

**1.**

“Wait, so you're _Betty Carver_ ,” she says suddenly about two hours later. They've cleaned up and changed into their nightdresses and robes. They're sitting next to each other on Peggy's bed, backs against the wall and shoulders against each other, glasses of fortifying brandy nestled in their laps. With the stories Peggy has, Angie _needed_ fortifying.

Peggy makes a face so cold it's almost frightening, and Angie says quickly, “Or not. I mean, you're obviously so much tougher than Betty Carver. That broad's got the voice, but she's always crying for help. I bet you could knock a guy out with one punch.”

Peggy's lips curl up into a quietly satisfied smile. “Something like that.” She glances at Angie quickly through her eyelashes and admits, “I might have stabbed one of your diner jerks with a fork once.”

It's just as well that she's sitting down, otherwise Angie feels like she could swoon. Oh, she's got it bad. Finding out about Peggy's secret life is probably the worst thing that could have happened to her. Loving another woman only sounds impossible until the other woman turns out to lead a life of international espionage. What's one more secret to a woman like that?

Angie slowly realizes that she's been staring at Peggy's lips for the past several minutes. She blinks and looks up to find Peggy studying her with dark eyes.

“Angie,” Peggy says, low and deliberate. “You're a good friend.”

“Yeah, I know.” Angie shrugs when Peggy snorts slightly at her response. “Hey, you gotta know your own strengths if you're going to make it in this world. It's not like there's a surplus of people standing around waiting to give you credit.”

Peggy's expression sobers and she tilts her head thoughtfully. “That's actually... very true.” They sit silently for a moment, Angie studying the image their legs make stretched out alongside each other. Peggy has nice calves, she thinks idly. Shapely and long, just like the rest of her.

“There's another thing I want to give you credit for,” Peggy says suddenly, and when Angie turns to look over, she catches her mouth in a kiss.

Angie makes a noise and Peggy draws back, the self-assurance in her eyes fading before Angie says breathlessly, “Oh, _hell yes._ ” And then she's turning to face her fully and they're kissing again.

Their drinks get knocked over, but neither of them pays any attention, too busy pressing forward and trying to get as much body contact as possible. Angie runs her hands up Peggy's sides and finally cups those amazing breasts that have always driven her to distraction every time Peggy's lounged around in a robe. She feels the weight of them in her hand, the bump of a nipple under her palm, and tears her mouth from Peggy's in order to kiss her way across her jaw and down her neck.

“Angie,” Peggy says with difficulty. “Remember, we – _oh_ – we do need to keep quiet.”

Angie presses her back against the mattress, hands moving quickly to lift Peggy's nightdress out of her way. She smirks down at her, memorizing the flush on her cheeks, the rise and fall of her chest as she breathes hard. “I know the house rules, Peg, but I want to hear you. Just this once.”

Peggy keeps a lid on it until she's kissed her way down to the secret soft skin of her inner thigh, and then she starts moaning and can't stop. When Peggy's legs close in over her head, a sort of victorious mirror of what Angie came upon just a few hours earlier, she feels like she's hit a home run.

She'll explain the metaphor to Peggy later.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Any feedback is dearly appreciated!
> 
> You can also find me at sackett-and-katz.tumblr.com .
> 
> Rhea314 had made a podfic of this story -- mosey on over [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3645708) and enjoy!


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